Mouth of stars/ flickering hands of aesthetic people/ a blue picture/ a few more aesthetic people/ watching a turquoise dream altogether/ hands covered with kisses and sweet dreams/ a picture so surreal/ A body naked/ Warm/ a corroded necklace/ some more soft kisses/ Prayers/ An air of lullabies caressing toenails/ Journeys ending to nowhere/ starlight sinking like a grapevine/ bubblegum wrappers/ A night so dark/ Nothing fancy/ Orange peels dripping juice/ Skin so soft/soft as forlorn sky/ soft as a womb/ a word so pious/ temple bells/ a poem like this.
Submit your work for my collective Olive Skins here
I want to quieten my mind
and each day I would count ways to do that.
Popping pills backward / gazing at the starlight
until dawn slaps me all over again.
A memory of death fidgets with my tectonic body.
I become so slow.
slow like degrading with the earth.
I count ways to quiet my mind while writing this poem.
There is a drop of water on my palm which freezes my hand,
like a singular stem of the numb horizon.
Hush, hush, hush.
I see my reflections
dying in the soiled air that slips upon my lips.
Violet and brown.
A colourless dream often.
I want to rest quietly,
with no connections any more
I could stare a small spot on the ceiling
like a moth
trying to endure a lie.
My words are epileptic today
just like me, all wobbly.
I stand here in a sitting position like a lotus,
and my organs defy my breath.
This poem is a bizarre,
try not to comprehend anymore.
An entire life wraps itself
beneath the curtain of my orange mess.
You see few things here biting me like a void,
a fist to feel the pain
I have things half-written over here,
a half-written aesthetic journal
hammered down with sunburnt phases.
I have twigs of my memory
packed in a box of despair somewhere.
A point of subservience.
a poem falls
from my rinsed, soaked skin of spring.
I call it catharsis.
How my words dance around my convex neck,
how my creased papers sigh like a downpour.
And I all have is memories
of blue-bathed cloth
of sins& bottle-brush
All I have now is
rest for my eyelids,
rest for my empty body,
my dancing, elliptical body.
Submissions for my collective olive skins here
There is absolutely no pattern for a person to decay
or a pattern for the fruit to burst.
Nature shove the ashes of human anatomy
like a geranium in rust
and spit into the sky.
A definite pause for the system to observe
with no faint hope, at times.
How do you see hope now?
Hope is a face disguised as d e a t h
you know you will ultimately sink.
You talk about shadows and yellow summers
well all I see is a child, tanned
with slender fingers picking up the peel of an orange,
he is quiet now.
He has his summers all circulating inside his belly.
A pattern, do you see now?
A pattern for sweaty fingers and arms,
the dead, barren tongue of the cloak,
away from the winters and summers.
A toxic waistline of slippery dreams.
Where is the uniformity?
In the pallet of a child’s dream,
in the veins of his eye
See quietly, do not speak,
There is absolutely no uniformity.
For it has been corroded, now.
I am a madhouse for this absurdity!
Submission for Olive skins
I sit quietly,
observing the silent curves of this Plumeria,
a life extending like an infant.
No lament today,
only the surreal fire of this body,
listening to the hanging exhilaration.
As if, it digests the broken star
running across it’s face of thawed bone.
It shifts it’s mouth
to a better pathway.
It has a space to collect water,
to extend a chin of its part
biting this orange earth sipping sunlight.
This flower disobeys my myth
in small portions for me to eat.
There is a half – eaten Poetry
that I saw today,
hidden in the soft folds of life.
I think of keeping it’s lesson
soft as a summer grass
on my productive legs today.
this ripple of water
on my lips
that twitch & break.
A lotion of rain,
winds collected in my eye
and a nude vase of arm,
that hums a cerulean sigh.
An acoustic of roses
swivelling my nerves
a blue vacant vein
now full & warm.
rub a spot of clouds
onto my bosom of emptiness.
a tongue only knows moisture
a tongue only knows a life beneath.
A joy emerges
from the shamble
of splintered life.
rub, rub, rub
a butterfly, a moth,
a window of blueberry night.
In the silence
of mists and haze,
a poem falls from my sunny hairdo.
a Garland of potions & subservience,
an epoch of timeless gravity.
sitting and sewing a tale
inside my neon stomach.
A blue light,
so tangerine running through here,
lost in the evening,
lost in me.
I hear the garlands of solitude,
I watch the trepidations,
so full and convex.
I slip my hands through
this departing air
and I feel like another woman.
Fidgeting the remains of earth.
P s – my poem published on Mad Swirl.